


After the Hanging Riff

by fleddie



Category: Muse
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleddie/pseuds/fleddie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wild guitar riffs, bright light, a gun shot and blood shed. Welcome to the most memorable Muse gig!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Star

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen this work in deviant art (http://chainsling22.deviantart.com/art/MUSE-meets-VELVET-GOLDMINE-107078671), well... that's my work. I am chainsling22 in dA and fictionpress.
> 
> This story was written before the Resistance album.  
> A little warning: NO Romantic Content!  
> A little typography: The italic fonts represents the talks in fans club forum.
> 
> hope you enjoy the story ^_^

 

 

 _Glaciers melting in the dead of night_

 _And the superstar’s sucked into the super massive_

 _Super massive black hole …._

 

His voice was mesmerizing. His riff was ecstatic. The crowd was in trance.

It was almost a perfect gig. A few more songs and encore as usual. Spectacular fireworks or giant balloons that follow, or maybe a giant spaceship-alike this time? That’s what every die-hard fan in that concert ever dared to hope. But this time, it was all too different.

No one heard the shot. The crowd was too loud, and the band was too busy to please them. Even Dom, his best friend, didn’t see the first spill of blood beautifully trailing down his white glittery jacket. The blood has already touched the hardness of stage floor when Dom and Chris found the hanging riffs. But neither of them could stop what happened next.

Paramedics came too soon. The lights weren’t even all off then. And they worked too fast. Stage lights went back again in what seemed like a split second. The paramedics were gone by that time, leaving no trace at all. Not even Matt.

 A brilliant white light shone down at the center of the stage. It shone down at Matt’s now blood-stained white glittery jacket. There was no other light but that. Around it were Dom and Chris, looking blankly at the stage ceiling.

To the eyes of the crowd, it was a dramatic scene.

~ oOo ~

 

Speculations on that fateful gig spreading fast like dust flying from a huge blast. What did exactly happen during that deadly riffs? Did Matt get badly wounded? Did he lose his conscious for weeks? Did he die on stage? Was he kidnapped by aliens?

 _“No. Matt is an alien. They just took him home.”_

 _“I say Matt is murdered. He’s too dangerous for the government.”_

 _“Nah. That’s too reckless. Killing him in the middle of his show? In front of thousand witnesses? That’s not State-like style at all.”_

 _“Well, who else want him dead? No one.”_

 _“How about the record label?”_

 _“Or try his rivals.”_

 _“Like who?”_

 _“Like, ummm… Thom Yorke? *giggle*”_

And more and more debates continued to flourish. Not a single music website forum was untouched by this topic. Not a single day without talking of his mysterious disappearance in fansite forums. It’s the gossip of the month of most showbiz news. Only real killer-gossips like Britney Spears having George W.Bush’s baby or Brad Pitt having transsexual surgery could beat that.

But every gossip has its time. Few weeks later, the disappearance of Matthew Bellamy shrunk into short-lived threads in fansite forums.

 _“He is really dead. Period.”_

 _“Ok *cries* but who wants him dead? *cocking riffle*”_

 _“Who doesn’t?”_

 _“Us *true love mode:  on*”_

 _“We’ll have a long list of potential killers, babe.”_

 _“Cut the crap! Hey, don’t listen to him.”_

 _“1. The government (umm… which government? :D)”_

 _“2. The record label.”_

 _“3. Rivals (another long list, my dear fellow Musers *wink*)”_

 _“Lalalalala *shuts her ears, don’t wanna hear*”_

 _“4. Zetas?”_

 _“Wtf?”_

 _“5.Himself.”_

 _“*kicks him out*”_

 _“6. Ex girlfriend (or ex boyfriend *wink wink*)”_

 _“7. Crazy fans.”_

 _“8. His heir (*hahahaha*)”_

 _“9. Anyone criticized by his songs, like…”_

 _“10. God?”_

 _“Oh. Shut up you all! It’s just that sicko Muse Management! They just don’t know what else to do to sell out this pathetic band. Make-ups and fireworks just won’t do anymore. Neither will jet pack. Or homoeroticness. This band is might as well dead *kills herself*“_

Months later, it remains nothing but a tiny spark of Musers’ discussion forums. Police have quit searching long time ago. Muse management was at the tip of its death, for most of the crews were leaving. They felt betrayed for not being told of what really happened to their icon, their idol, their source of bulk earnings. His parents have given up hoping. His girlfriend has found a new love. The record label began to open audition for new lead vocal and guitarist ( _“NO!!!! Matt is irreplaceable!!!”_ ). They asked Dom and Chris to learn songwriting. Secretly, they searched for new songwriter. And new bands to pet.

A year later, everybody thinks Matt is long gone. And everything goes back to normal. A year after the shooting, Matt is already forgotten.

 

But not for Dom.

 

~ end of part ONE ~


	2. Incomplete

 

 

There’s no way Matt could disappear completely. There’s no way Matt wanted to be forgotten. He knew Matt too well. He knew Matt wanted to be invisible while at the same time he craved for fame. He knew he wanted people to question his ideas while secretly wished they follow him blindly. He knew he disbelieved but he envied the believers. He knew he wanted to believe.

 

He knew Matt like he knew a single mole in his pale left palm. It’s so small and insignificant. It looks like it wants to blend into the paleness around it, but at the same time, it stands out and defies it. Matt was the dot he wanted to wash away.

He used to hate him. He hated his concentration look when actually he was thinking of trivial things. He hated his rapid speech as if he wanted to convince everyone that his thoughts ran faster than his speech. He hated his weird ideas of everything. And he hated his pride of being ‘different’.

 

The more he hated him, the more he studied him.

 

One or two people started to talk to Matt through him. Then everyone did the same. It was then when he realized what he was to Matt. He conveyed Matt’s thoughts into earthly things. He made people know that Matt wasn’t as complex as he tried to look. Through Dom, Matt was a human being.

Through Matt, Dom was more than just a blonde drummer. He was more than just a second spokeperson of the band. He was more than just the guy who said “Cheers” at the end of acceptance speeches. He made the band livelier, more likeable. He was not overshadowed by Matt. He was, some say, Matt’s inspiration. He was his muse.

 

Some said they were inseparable. Some even said they’re gay couple.

But they know nothing about him and Matt. They don’t know him like he does. They don’t know how much he needs Matt. They don’t know what kind of need he does have for Matt.

 

With Matt, he did more than exist. With Matt, _he_ was the superstar.

 

When all hope in the world is gone, Dom’s remains still. He knows Matt needs him too. Matt needs to exist. Matt needs his muse. Matt needs him, to make him superstar.

 

Matt can’t die. One day, Matt will crawl back to him.

 

~ end of part TWO ~


	3. 1013697

 

“Come here 1013697!”

“Yes, Sir.”

A small man of early 30’s walks warily to the taller man. He seems not to recognize the other man. Not that it really matters, for he’s been gone for years. People must have come and go, losing or gaining higher power. What really matters is that he’s here, incompletely brainwashed of his previous life.

“Follow me,” said the taller man.

He nods.  Both of them walk through a dark corridor silently. The taller man doesn’t seem interested for a conversation with him. He doesn’t mind. He seems more interested in studying the place. The narrow doors, small windows, and cold floor seem to be so appealing to him, even in that dull darkness.

They stepped down steep and narrow stairs. Darkness is reducing gradually as they walk into a smoky room. About a dozen people were there. More than half of them are smoking. All of them pose serious faces. All of them ignore the two men walking past through.

“No. People won’t buy it. Take my word for it.”

“They will.”

“We’ve been trying for years. They’ll never change.”

“Of course they will. You have to make them.”

“I know, but…”

“It’s in how you persuade them.”

“You have to be more subtle.”

“But we’re not targeting subtle people, are we?”

The small man stops and watching them. Listening to them intently. Obviously, he wants to be a part of them.

“Hey, 1013697“

He turns his head to the caller. That taller man seems impatient. He seems want to get rid of him as quick as he can.

“Come here.”

He follows him obediently. Both of them walk to reach a hazy purple door. The taller opens it for the other man. He seems glad that he’s finally free from that simple and boring task. The other man seems glad too, for he sees a tall brunette woman behind the door. He steps into the room.

“So, 1013697. Welcome back!”

He grins, showing his white crooked teeth. The woman smiles back lightly.

“I see you’ve made quite impressive progress, 1013697. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Leader.”

“But this report says,” she glances at the black book in her hand, “you had some difficulties in forgetting your past. Is that right?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Excuse me, Leader?”

“Refusing commands of higher comrades, tendency to be center of attention, lacking trust to teammates, yet dominance over average-sized males, attraction to financial impulse, ...” she closes the book in her hand, “what is your problem, really? Losing your fame? Wealth?”

“Losing my friends,” he thought sadly.

“You knew the risks when you decided to join us, didn’t you?” her green eyes glare at his.

He nods. How can he forget how proud he was? He thought of changing history of the world, at least being a small part of it.

“Do you want to leave?” her voice now feels colder than winter yet sharper than the ancient blade in her waist.

“No, Leader.”

“Good,” she sounds like flattering her smart dog, “cause you can’t.” Her voice turns into cold and intimidating one, “We will hunt you if you leave.”

“I understand, Leader.”

She smiles. She knows this small man will never leave this organization that easily. He’s too consumed with his ideals of greatness.

“And I begin to like you, 1013697.”

He can’t help smiling proudly.

“How many followers have you got? Thousands, I suppose?”

“More. We have thousands of fans coming to our gigs in every country…”

“Gigs? Watch your language, 1013697,“ she points her purple-nailed index to him.

“Sorry, Leader. I mean, missions. We have thousands of fans, err… followers, in every country.”

“We?” she snaps, “you must learn to choose your word, 1013697. They’re not one of us. They’re not your comrades. They were with you cause we made you attract them. Did you not remember your teenage life, 1013697?”

Of course he remembers. No one would care to see a skinny, short, weird boy like he was. Even a near-lifeless junkie was more attractive than he was. He also knows that his golden voice and magic fingers would not make people call him a ‘musical genius’. Talent? Talent alone would not make anyone turn to see him. Yet, talent was all he could offer to her, to this organization. To lofty ideals he adores.

“Sorry, Leader. _I_ made thousands of people coming to _my_ missions. _I_ made them buy _my_ alb…er, visions.”

“Good boy, 1013697. You learn quickly,” she chuckles. To him, it is a laugh of pure acknowledgement, and even, friendship. “And I heard you did an interesting method.”

He blushes. If anyone he knew one or two years ago sees this, they won’t believe their eyes. A man like him can’t be blushing that easily by such a humble and half-heartedly compliment, can he?

“You…” she looks up at her book again, “encrypt our teachings in your songs. Hm, that’s impressive. It really suits you. You’re talented. Good work, 1013697.”

He blushes even more. “Thank you, Leader. Could I …”

Her phone rings. She points her lithe index finger again, commanding him to quite. Then she reads the message. Looking annoyed but irresistibly cool, she types on her phone. No sounds but their breaths and keypads squeaking at her thumb’s press.

To him, it’s a dead silent. He wants more acknowledgements, more compliments, more praise, anything. He’s been working hard for more than 15 years. He deserves an award, doesn’t he? Oh yes, he gets lots of award back then, when he was with his friends. When he was with fame. Best Live Act, Best Album, Best Tour, you name it. But it’s not that kind of award he pursues in his whole life. It’s not the kind of award which goes with red carpet and flashy camera shots. This is an underground organization. A silent and challenging award is what he dreams of every night.

He glances at the room he’s just passed through. Some of those serious people over there are younger than him. He wants to be there too, being in higher layer of this organization.

“You have a new mission, 1013697.”

His blue eyes sparkling like diamonds. “In the thinker group?”

“No. What made you think so?”

His sapphire eyes dim instantly at her retort. “I… I…,” he stutteres, “… I sell four albums.”

“You sell four albums?” she laughs mockingly, “oh, dear. Not that it’s bad, 1013697, it’s just…small. You see, you’re still trapped inside your past life. That’s why you can’t improve.”

“But I made them loyal, fanatic fans, …err, followers. They will follow me blindly, no matter what I say. And they…”

“In other words, you want to be in upper level or stay in your previous mission?” she snaps.

He nods warily, unsure she really cares for what he wants or she just scolds him. His mind isn’t as sharp as it was in his previous life, is it?

“Your mission is off, 1013697. There’s no way we’ll risk our goals for that state of mind of yours. Now go back to where you were,” she says coldly.

He looks at her in disbelief. Did she say he has to go back to _that_ room? Fifteen years of hardwork, of enduring filthy gossips, of millions of die-hard followers, mean nothing now?

He shakes his head. There’s no need to ask her to change her mind. She never does. She always means what she says. She hates it when someone asks her to repeat her words.

He turns to leave. He feels all his energy drenched out. He hardly can walk. “Back to that room,” he curses himself.  The brainwashing room. It seems like he doesn’t hate enough the idea of brainwashing. He repeats it in his songs. Yet, he has to go through it. Twice. How humiliating.

Without make-ups, fancy outfits and expensive musical gears, he’s just like the rest of those people in the brainwashing room. A nobody. He’s no longer the musical genius Matthew Bellamy. He’s no longer a superstar. He’s just a pawn.

 

~ end of the story ~


End file.
